The Fargo Files, volume I
by ZeroGain
Summary: Detective Doug Fargo is the man to call when the cops can't help and the whole world is against you. When a beautiful and mysterious woman walks through the door, will his fortunes go from bad to worse, or are things looking up? Post s04e10, AU.
1. Dangerous Dames

**THE FARGO FILES, VOL I.**

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1. DANGEROUS DAMES

Nights like this never brought anything good, he thought, chewing on the stub of his trademark red-label cigarillo. It was the last one, too. He'd have to see Vinnie about replenishing his supply. That man could get anything, legal or not, it all depended on whether or not your money was the right color. He dropped the blinds of his office window, partially shutting out the heavy rain soaking the city below. The old blinders half-worked at best, only partially covering the window as they bound up. The footsteps striking a sharp staccato toward his office door said it all.

A dame. If the shadows visible through the single pane of frosted glass in the thin door were anything to judge by she was a one hell of a looker too.

She paused at the door, reading the imprint on the outside. He knew the words well, and was proud of them. In gold foil lettering they read:

**Doug Fargo  
Private Investigator**

_"Your Problems Are __My__ Problems!"_

In a city this corrupt, his image and reputation were everything, and the slogan was part of it. He heard his caller snort in disgust, a rather unladylike noise, and disconcerting to boot. Deciding to see what Lady Luck had to offer tonight, he moved over to his desk chair and kicked back, putting his feet up on the hardwood desk.

The door opened, revealing his caller's silhouette, the brighter light from the hallway clinging to her frame, highlighting the curves of her body. She paused to survey the room with the swift assessment of a professional, and then entered; each step in those tall heels suggesting so many things, and yet promising nothing.

Her raven black hair spilled over one shoulder, setting off the fitted scarlet dress. The neckline promised paradise, but denied entry. The middle clung to her waist, showing that she was trim and fit. You could bounce a quarter off that stomach! And lower? The dress sheathed her legs like a second skin. He resisted the urge to bite his knuckle.

Her dusky skin fairly glowed in the yellow incandescence of his single overhead lamp, and some little voice inside his head wanted her to purr, "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way!"

The only problem, Doug noticed, dropping his feet down off the desk and sitting up in the swivel chair, was that she was looking neither desperate, scared, nor in any need of his assistance. In fact, she looked downright pissed. Worse, it was clear from the heat of her stare that she was angry at _him_!

The fierceness of the glare instilled in him a vaguely familiar sense of abject terror that seemed out of place. Why would a woman, especially one that looked like _that_, instill terror in him? Why, he was no stranger to the gentler sex, if anything-

"Fargo!" she demanded, stepping closer. He noted once more wonderful things those heels did for her gait. "What the hell is going on here?"

He blinked, stuck dumb for the briefest of moments. Yeah, that was terror. The queasiness, the jittery sensation caused by adrenalin beginning to flow.

But terror didn't track. Not on Doug Fargo! Not the man who gave made men reason to fear. "Now see here, sweetheart-"

"Sweetheart?" she exploded. The rage boiling off of her was palpable… and somehow familiar. Was she a former lover? No, that would be one rodeo he'd never forget! "I swear to God, if this is another 'El Otro Hombre' fantasy I'm going to skin you alive!"

_El Otro Hombre?_ he thought. The words were familiar, and the association tickled a memory. The tickle, combined with the woman's seething glare, became an itch that had to be scratched.

He analyzed what he knew, trying to place the phrase, place her familiarity. It seemed as though there were a knot there before him, hopelessly tangled. He picked at it, and soon the strands untangled, loosening the threads of memory. Fact and conjecture fought briefly, and then a torrent of information flooded over him.

Not Doug Fargo, P.I., not the greatest detective in the city… No, he was Douglas Fargo, PhD, and most recently Director of Operations and Research at the secretive Global Dynamics headquarters.

_And the broad- Oh, shit… That's no broad, that's Jo… my head of security… Oh this is so not good!_

"Um…" he said, biting his lower lip. "Hi… Jo?"

"So now you remember me?" she demanded. A flush, one he thought rather pretty before hastily chastising himself, crept into her cheeks as she looked down at herself. "What the hell is going on and why am I dressed like _this?_ I look like a cheap 40's Hollywood slut!"

"Hey now!" he protested. "Those were some classy ladies, Jo. And besides, there's nothing cheap about how you look."

She sighed. "Forget me, why do _you_ look like _that?_"

"Like what?" he asked, his indignation causing his voice rising in pitch.

"Like… Dick Tracy… or something." she said, and the set of her features, the contortions, said that she wanted to laugh, but he caught a flash of heat in her eyes.

He looked down and analyzed his garments. A suit, three-button jacket, white cotton shirt with (he could feel) a stiff starched collar and a tie of inoffensive gray and black. The tie was loose and the top button on the collar left open.

She sighed, the gesture laden with frustration. It looked to him as though she were making an effort to set aside her anger. Shaking her head, she slid into one of the office chairs in front of the desk. He couldn't help but notice the way the dress moved as she sat. Jo was a very beautiful woman when she wasn't intentionally hiding it behind uniforms or casual intimidation. The dress rode up to unseemly levels, but she adapted smoothly, crossing her legs as she sat. Her whole style looked as if someone had intentionally dressed her up for a movie set. If she noticed his attention, she let it slide without further comment.

"So, what's going on? And do not tell me this is _your_ idea!"

Fargo shook his head and sat back in his chair. "I'll say this though, if it's anything like Founder's day, it sure beats winding up naked."

She laughed, snorting slightly. He did to, though he tried to hide his embarrassment. Of the five time travelers he'd been the only one to wind up stark naked in front of a crowd of armed soldiers.

Realizing what he'd just said, Fargo clumsily moved on to say, "Not that, you know, I wouldn't um..."

"Save it, Fargo." she said dangerously. "So we can rule out time-"

"Nnnzzz!" Fargo uttered while making shushing motions.

Jo's eyes widened a little and she looked around, "-ly interventions?" she finished weakly, shooting him an apologetic glance.

"Let's agree to 'Not like Founder's Day' shall we?" he asked.

Jo nodded, "Fine, not like that." She was silent for a moment, clearly suddenly uncomfortable. "Um, what's the first thing you remember?"

"What?" he asked

"When you woke up here," she clarified. "What's your first memory?"

Fargo thought back. He recalled dropping the shades in disgust, but try as he might he couldn't remember the exact act of, say, shutting the office door, or hanging up his (very stylish) trench coat on that rack. And yet, at the same time, he knew unequivocally that he had, just as he knew that he'd had steak and eggs for breakfast this morning at Gerti's Diner down on 37th; except Eureka didn't have a 37th anything, and no Gerti anywhere in town that he knew of. Not to mention that the only multi-level buildings of any note were _underground_. He glanced out the window again, or what he could see through the crappy shades. They were very clearly at least five floors up.

"I remember closing those shades. I have an impression and a really weird certainty about breakfast, and how I got here, but they don't fit with Eureka at all." He frowned, leaning forward and steepling his fingers on the desk. The beautiful hardwood furniture looked very empty at the moment, and he realized it was missing a computer. It was plain to see that there was no hope of finding one any time soon, considering the time frame they were apparently stuck in.

"What do you remember, Jo?"

She blushed, and not just a little either! It was an instant emotional reaction. "Um." she said, coughing uncomfortably into her hand and shifting. Her eyes were anywhere but on his face.

"Oh come on, Jo, you've got to remember something," he pried, his voice harder than he normally used with her, determined to have an answer.

"Well… about that… I remember getting out of the elevator and heading down the hallway. I… um… well, my emotions were wacky. I felt scared, and was looking for help, but then I realized how ridiculous that was. Two mob thugs I could dust in my sleep? Please!" Scorn dripped from her words.

Fargo snorted, casting a wry look her way. "Right, like I could ever protect you." At least he tried for wry and self-deprecating. Even he could hear the hurt that had slipped unbidden into his voice. What man wouldn't want to protect Jo? Sometimes-just sometimes-he was so frelling jealous of Zane that it hurt.

"Fargo!" she protested. She looked surprised, then sadness came over her face.

"It's fine, Jo, I-" he began, warding off her protest with a raised hand.

"Douglas!" she interrupted, reaching out and grabbing his hand. "Listen. I'm Special Forces; I wouldn't run to _Carter_ for protection! But seriously, who busted me out of a cell with quick thinking and ingenuity not so long ago? Who put himself to the hazard in the rage incident? And what about hacking security so Carter and Stark could rescue Allison and Kevin a few years back?" she smiled as she said the last.

He knew he was blushing, and it got worse as she finished up, saying, "Listen, Douglas, believe it or not I do respect you. You can be annoying sometimes, but you're quick thinking, easily as smart as Zane, maybe even smarter, and you're a good friend. Don't take that comment wrong, all right?"

He nodded, not trusting his words as he locked eyes with her. She was serious.

"So, you 'woke up' with false memories too?" She nodded in response. "Then whatever this is it's tied into our brains somehow. While it might be like Founders Day, at least a little, it isn't the same. It feels like some noir crime drama: I'm the private detective; you're the damsel in distress..." He trailed off, nervously.

Jo's displeasure at the description was obvious. "You know," he said defensively, "The 'man in black' shared dream wasn't me! We proved that!"

She sighed, blushing again, and shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine, fine!"

Fargo treasured that memory. A dream it may have been, but he had indeed bested Nathan Stark at swordplay and been Jo's protector and more.

"Alright, whatever this is, if we've got implanted memories then we have implanted clues. I've read these books before, have you?" he asked.

"No, not my type of story." she said, looking away and blushing a little. What was it with her and the blushing bit? Jo normally didn't do that. It didn't seem like something to bring up at the moment, so he filed it away for later.

Fargo looked around the office as he continued talking. "With a noir thriller the formula is that the damsel comes seeking the hero's aid. No comments from the peanut gallery, please!" he responded to Jo's quiet snort. Of course the other half of the equation was that if she didn't need help, she was a femme fatale sent to lure the hero into a deeper trap. The real question then became, was this really Jo or a hallucination?

While he pondered the mystery he stood and started pacing the room, and though he could tell his nervous energy was agitating Jo, he couldn't still the urge to move. He noted again the high heeled shoes she had on, they were stylish, impractical, and probably cost a fortune. "Why are you still wearing those? Don't they hurt?"

She arched an eyebrow in confusion, and looked down at the shoes. "Um… that's weird."

"What?"

She shook her head, looking back up, "I haven't really noticed them at all. You're right though, they should hurt, but my feet feel fine."

Fargo grunted noncommittally. While he appreciated high fashion and how it looked on ladies, it just never made sense to him. Of course, sense wasn't the point…

Framed newspaper clippings, all from the so helpfully titled "City Gazette" hung from the wall. He stopped in front of them and started reading.

"Private Dick Fargo busts open Case of the Canary Stone!" and "Detective Fargo Shows Commissioner Deacon How It's Done!" Interesting… The picture with the so-called Canary Stone showed a really fine looking version of him, standing next to what looked like Nathan Stark in a police officer's uniform; that was odd. The other clipping had him shaking hands with Allison Blake, in a well-appointed office. The caption there read "Mayor Blake congratulates Private Detective Douglas Fargo on a job well done."

"Hey, Jo?" he said, drawing out the words. "Look at these."

She stood, walking over. He schooled his thoughts away from the predatory as he watched her move out of the corner of his eye. She stopped next to him and looked at the pictures and articles, snickering quietly. He kept silent.

"That's odd," Jo said "Those are people we know in different roles, and Stark's been dead a while..."

"Right." Fargo confirmed. "I wonder… We both suffered from that hallucination a while back, and Carter was seeing Doctor Stark. We might be in something else like that."

"Okay, maybe," she said. She wasn't buying on to it though, apparently. "What about… oh what was it… an alternate quantum state?"

"Alternate quantum universe." he corrected. She nodded. "Maybe, but it doesn't really hold up. If we were visitors why would we have memories of this universe? Besides, most quantum states are hostile to one another. Even under n theory we probably wouldn't be able to exist in another quantum universe. We just don't mesh."

"Alright, break it down a little more. What's the upshot?" she asked.

"Oh, right. Uh…" he floundered, looking for an "easy" way to say what he just said, but the problem was that the way he'd just said it _was_ the easy way.

"It's alright, Fargo, I'm pretty sure I get it. We'd go boom in another universe because it wouldn't like us, right?" she asked.

"Right! Or, at least close enough," he said, relieved. He'd been about to launch into a mini-lecture on dimensionality and parallel universes, not something he thought Jo would appreciate at the moment.

"So the question is, are they caught in this with us, the ones that are alive anyhow-" she began.

"Or are we alone?" he finished. _Or worse yet,_ he thought, _Are you even here or just a part of whatever this is?_

They both noticed the noise at about the same time, turning to look as a pair of shadows moved up toward his office door. Jo gasped, and swore urgently. "I think those guys are after me!" she whispered.

"Oh great…" Fargo muttered. Something inside wondered why it was always dames like this that brought trouble around. The incongruity of the thought froze him. Was that _his_ voice? He'd never had a thought like that before…

Jo was rifling through the small clutch, swearing hotly. She spun on him and hissed, "Gun!"

Her outburst jarred him back into reality. He cast about, his thoughts a jumble of Fargo the Private Eye, and Fargo the Scientist. He was about to tell her to go for the middle desk drawer, and the police special .38 inside when a heavy booted foot powered by a mountain of muscle smashed the latch on his office door.

A huge bruiser dressed in a cheap suit stepped into the room, fists tight, but empty. He shifted toward his left, clearing the entryway while glaring at Jo and Fargo. Another giant followed and moved to cover the other half of the room. This one had remarkably dark skin and wore no hat, his bald pate shining in the light. His over-large eyes, bloodshot and angry, seemed to glow in contrast.

They were followed by a fit young man dressed in an impeccable suit with a white dinner jacket, straight out of "Casablanca". He pulled a lit cigarette out of his mouth and tipped his fedora back and up, and grinned at them with the lazy confidence of a predator who's cornered his prey. "Now, now, Miss Lupo; Not even the brilliant Detective Fargo is going to keep you from giving back what you stole. Boss Carter really hates getting the short end of the stick, you know."

"Zane?" Both Jo and Fargo stared incredulously.

"That's Mister Donovan to the likes of you two." he said with a dangerous edge in his voice. He turned to the two bruisers, who Fargo vaguely recognized as guards from G.D. Zane's command though was decidedly not familiar. "Bust up the dick, get the girl."

_Oh, great, just great!_ Fargo thought.

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_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Eureka; its characters, or its concepts. I'm just playing for fun and an educational experience._

_**Author's Notes:**__ I've always wanted to do a Fargo centric story. This one came to me quite some time ago, but when I hit a block over on Project Archimedes I decided to keep working. I read the other day that the Muse only visits during the act of creation, if you aren't creating, she'll never stop by. You just have to keep creating, you'll only fail if you quit._

_Thank you much Sydnew, for your critical eye on this! Check out her awesome work here in the Eureka section of this website (since I apparently can't even type fan fiction dot net)._


	2. When the Going Gets Tough

**THE FARGO FILES, VOL I.**

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2. WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH…

"You punks are mine," hissed Jo. Despite the scarlet dress and the ridiculous heels she went for the goons with the fury and power of a wildcat.

But—what the hell? Fargo had seen Jo in action before. She was damn tough, she'd taken out six guys solo in 1947. He knew what to expect; but this? It wasn't it! In the self-defense course she taught administrative staff back at Global she'd explained some truly frightening things you could do to an attacker. He still couldn't escape the little chill that plagued him every time he thought of learning how easy it was for someone like her to literally remove a person's finger. No, instead of anything like that, she tried to scratch his eyes out. She was fighting like a-

He stopped himself before he finished that thought. With the way his luck was going somehow it would have projected to her. Hell, if this were some elaborate performance evaluation (When exactly was his review anyhow?) the very last thing he needed was Dr. Young hearing him think that! Then he would be ruing the day, indeed.

Fargo noticed movement in his peripheral vision, and realized that the big Irishman, the one who'd kicked down his door, was almost on top of him. The second bruiser, the black guy, was well on his way to containing Jo, and like an idiot Fargo'd been thinking instead of acting. He barely had enough time to flinch out of the way of Lucky's first swing.

Lucky? How did he know this asshole's name was "Lucky"?

Physics waits for no man's incredulity, and the ham-handed fist connected with his head, but Fargo had managed to evade just enough of the blow to avoid a concussion, or serious injury. It still hurt like a son of a gun, though.

He staggered back a step, off balance. Lucky grinned wickedly as he tried to close in to finish off Fargo.

The familiar fight or flight instinct rampaged into Fargo's forebrain, but for the first time in his life he failed to choose the "flight" option. Why did he do that? What was going on here? First Jo doesn't know how to fight, and now suddenly he wanted to?

He glanced over at Jo, and found that she was not doing well. The man she was fighting had both her arms trapped by the wrist. She was snarling mad, but if Detective Doug Fargo was any judge of character she was also confused as hell and off balance. Funny, he'd always thought of himself as the guy that pushed buttons.

Rather than delve deep into the psychology of his current insanity, Fargo submitted to his unexplainable desire for action and moved inside Lucky's reach, dodging another big swooping punch. Keeping low and compact, Fargo struck hard, the first blow hitting right below the bigger man's sternum and compressing his diaphragm. The air rushed out of him and he doubled over involuntarily. As his chin came down Fargo snapped into an uppercut that would've done Little Mac proud. Lucky's jaws snapped, hard. Fargo felt a slight sting as something sharp and white, a tooth chip no doubt, zinged out of Lucky's mouth and scored across Fargo's cheek.

Lucky stared at Fargo with a blank look for a long second, and then bonelessly collapsed to the floor.

How the hell had he managed that? It didn't matter, he needed to help Jo, and fast.  
It was plain to see the moment Jo's resolve hardened. The frantic struggle against her attacker halted, and she acted with precision. Given that she was nearly pinned there was but one target. She sank down slightly, faking out her attacker, who leered and followed momentarily. Compressing both legs, she lunged, her left leg rising, her right leg firmly planted, her knee slamming with bone-jarring force into the thug's crotch. The blow looked strong enough to possibly rupture the big man's testicles.

It was one of those moments you see on the big screen, or even worse, home video shows. Fargo flinched in sympathetic pain.

Made man or not, his eyes rolled back, his face contorting so his mouth formed a little "O" of astonishment, and he collapsed. He didn't even wail. Breathing hard, Jo glared down at the supine form of her opponent, and Fargo noticed a small, vicious smile on her lips.

"God dammit!" snarled Donovan around his cigarette. He produced a handgun from his dinner jacket and leveled it on her. The smile vanished and she froze.

"Zane? What the hell are you doing?" she asked, her voice tentative with shock.

"I'll find the goddamn stone another way! Goodnight, Miss Lupo." Zane smiled and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud crack, the sound of a gun discharging, and Zane's expression went from haughty to shocked in a flash. He peered at the blossom of scarlet red staining his dress jacket right next to his handsomely folded pocket square. A heart shot.

Fargo, standing behind his desk, stared down the barrel of his gun. The little .38 Police Special packed one hell of a punch, and had saved his bacon on more than one case. Now it had come to the rescue once again.

"Zane!" Jo stared, watching as Zane collapsed to the floor. For a split second she seemed undecided, and then she moved quickly to his side, kneeling next to him.

In the utter silence following the gun's thunderous pronouncement Jo's grief and disbelief were audible. Both bruisers were silent and still.

Fargo stepped over Lucky and moved to Jo. At this point he was pretty sure that events weren't what they appeared. The skill with which he'd handled the gun was too precise, but there were other clues too: the knowledge he had, the desire to act, the fitness to accomplish what he desired.

"Zane!" Jo cried, cradling his head in her lap, her hands stained with blood as she tried to put pressure on the wound. "Oh God, no! No!"

"Come on, Jo!" Fargo said quietly, his urgency palpable. "He won't be the only one, we have to go. Now."

Her head snapped around and she looked him in the eye and he could see that hers were filling, close to overflowing, and it nearly broke his heart. "Why, Fargo? Why did you shoot him?" she demanded. Zane was no longer breathing.

"Later, Jo. I'll explain it later, but right now we have to get moving." He reached out and touched her arm, anxious to get them out of there. He could imagine it already, two more by the front door, maybe a car waiting outside, men waiting with Tommy guns.

"No!" Her right hand came up and swung, leaving a burning mark of reproof on his cheek. It stung, but it was just one more thing in his litany of what was wrong with this world. Jo didn't slap: Jo knocked your fucking block off.

"Why you didn't just gouge out my eyes, rip off my ear, or crush my throat?" he asked.

She stared at him, eyes doubtful. "I… I meant to punch you… why- what- why did I do that?"

Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere, Fargo knelt down by Zane's side and said "It isn't Zane, Jo. It's a fake, a decoy. Look, he's not bleeding anymore!"

Fargo slipped his gun in his pocket, wishing he had a shoulder harness or something for it, and proceeded to yank open Zane's coat. Once the bare chest was exposed, Jo gasped. "That's… that's wrong!"

Fargo nodded, suspecting he was noticing the same things. The bullet wound was clean and circular, with some of the puckering of a chest wound, but it was no longer oozing blood, and the blood it had oozed looked funny up close. He reached out and dipped a finger in it, bringing the discharge up to his nose. It didn't smell right, not enough of the coppery odor, and it felt wrong too. For once the Phillip Marlowe part of his personality wasn't saying anything smart assed…

Phillip Marlowe… that actually worked very well. So much of this felt like a four-color version of a Chandler book.

At that moment the man Jo had laid out started pushing himself up, his groan of pain a thin and reedy thing.

"We have to go, Jo. Now!" Fargo urged, pulling at her to stand. She stared at the corpse, but he wasn't sure if she was studying it for detail or staring in disbelief. At his urging though, she nodded decisively and stood.

Shaking off Fargo's hand hold, she walked over and picked up her clutch bag from the floor, then nodded at him. He quickly searched Zane's pockets, pulling out a billfold, a gold case for his cigarettes, and the gun. He then stood and retrieved his coat, handing the gun over to Jo.

They hurried to the elevator and from there to the building's parking garage. The structure was horribly lit with dingy low output incandescent light bulbs. At least a third were burned out.

Operating on instinct, Fargo took them to a secluded corner of the garage and stopped in front of his car. He recognized it from old photos, one of the founders of Eureka had one, and treasured it, but the 1936 Cord had never achieved the same legacy in town as the '47 New Yorker. This sample seemed to be a pristine deep burgundy model, a convertible. The long wheelbase and impressive motor housing made statements about the car's power that he hoped would be borne out. It was a strangely "Eureka" kind of car, first of its kind to have front wheel drive and concealed headlights.  
He pulled a keychain out of his pocket and let his hands select the right key by reflex, then opened the passenger door for Jo. He hurried over and let himself in the driver's side. He quickly started the car. Again, reflex and instinct seemed the order of the moment, as if he'd done this hundreds of times.

He pulled the car out of the garage and raced out into the rainy night of the city.

* * *

When they finally stopped driving, the illuminated clock on the console read 12:30. The rain had stopped, but the skies threatened to share their displeasure with mortal man once more at only a moment's notice.

They were parked in front of an old apartment building, a brownstone in a weathered and beaten part of town. The Wolverine's ran this turf, but Fargo had an understanding with Billy Puck after settling the gang's issue with the unlawful prosecution by Councilman Hererra. And the Wolverines weren't a bad crew, more of a guardian angel gang, although they got a little rough from time to time. He and Jo should be safe here.

Fargo shook his head. This was artificial, he knew it. These thoughts? They weren't his.

Fargo and Jo exited the vehicle and walked up to the brownstone's front door. It was cold, cold enough that he felt a little guilty standing there while Jo's dress did so little to keep her warm. He shrugged out of the trench coat and handed it to her. She glared at him for half a second, but a nipping breeze caused her to rethink pride , and she pulled on the coat.

During the wait, Fargo scanned the street for signs of pursuers: thus far none. He sighed with relief. A few minutes later an old man came shuffling into the foyer of the building. He eyed Fargo for a moment, then put the bulk of his attention on Jo and frowned even harder.

He approached them and opened the door. "Mister Fargo, this isn't a bordello, go rent a-"

"It's not like that, Ira," Fargo interrupted, "I just need a safe place for me and the dame for a few hours, you still got that spare space?"

He had no idea what he was saying, to be honest, but a part of him knew that this old guy, who looked so much like that scientist who'd worked on that insane moon weapon in his first office at G.D., supposedly had a standing agreement with him.

Ira, apparently the right name, nodded. He glared at Fargo and said, "If the missus wakes up to you two makin' noise, yer out." He turned and walked away muttering words like unseemly, young idjits, and fornication. Fargo and Jo followed.

The room was small, had a single bed, and a low window. The decor seemed to date back a few decades at best, but it was quiet and quite likely safe, at least for a while.

Fargo pulled out a chair by the vanity and sat down with a sigh. Jo kept the overcoat on and sat on the bed. She looked at her hands, having wiped the Zane copy's blood off them a while ago on one of Fargo's handkerchiefs. There was still staining, though, and it was caked under her nails.

She huffed out a breath, then stood and walked toward him. "Move," she said, motioning him away from the vanity. He vacated the seat and she sat down, she glanced around briefly, then muttered something and pulled out Zane's pistol. It was a pearl handled Colt automatic, a .45 Fargo thought, and was embossed with patterns that he couldn't decipher from this distance. He sighed quietly and sat down on the bed while she stripped the gun.

Without looking at him she asked in a subdued voice, "What's going on, Douglas?"

He looked away from her. He knew Jo preferred to be in charge, or at least have a clear direction. He didn't want to imagine what she must be thinking. The last time anything like this had happened to them they'd come back to a changed 2010 and she'd lost Zane for real. What if this was like that? He knew that she and the Zane from the changed timeline were back together, it was hard not to know it in a small town like Eureka.

He was quiet for long enough that she added, "Don't wall me out on this, Fargo. I'm not in the mood for any bullshit."

He nodded and looked back at her. "I don't know, Jo. Not exactly."

Her gaze hardened, and he was of two minds on how to react. His usual reaction to that glare was to yelp and run for cover, but the voice he'd been calling Marlowe wanted to snap back. He self-moderated, however, and answered calmly.

"Look, Jo, piece this stuff together with me. I'm experiencing different reactions; you have got to be too. I know things I shouldn't, like where the car was, that I had a gun in my desk... where this place was. Back in my office you should've taken my head off, not slapped me. That's not you!" he stressed the last with a hard stare.

"Oh stuff it, Fargo! I am me." she said, locking eyes with him in the vanity's mirror, but there was a strange note to her voice.

"What I mean is… crap I don't know what I mean!" He leaned sat forward on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe massaging his temples would help?

After a moment of silence between them, Jo ventured, "What's the last thing you remember from Eureka?"

He thought for a minute and looked her in the eyes, suddenly more scared than he had been since translocating back to 1947 and winding up buck-ass naked in front of a handful of G.I. Joes. "I… I don't know…"

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I do not now, nor will likely ever, own Eureka or its characters and concepts. I am however quite glad that we get season 4.5 sometime in July 2011. Thank you to those who do own this for letting us run around in your universe! I'm doing this for fun and education only.  
_

_**Author's Notes:** When I started this I thought "what could be easier", bzzzzzt. It is surprisingly easy to lose your voice and your characters when you throw them into situations completely outside their experience, and I've struggled immensely to get this chapter feeling right to me. It is only with the critical eye and unflinching resolve of my beta that I was able to do it at all. I hope all of you like it!_

_Thanks again, Sydnew, for lending that critical eye. Folks, if you haven't read her stuff yet, what are you waiting for?  
_

_Thanks also to my reviewers, you all are the extra zing that makes fanfiction so damn rewarding!  
_


	3. What a WOPR

**THE FARGO FILES, VOLUME I**

* * *

3. WHAT A WOPR...

"I don't remember much either," Jo said quietly. They were quiet for a while; Fargo pursuing his own thoughts, lost in recollection. Not being able to remember anything, and knowing that he was missing memories, was a terribly frightening idea.

Suddenly Jo gasped tightly, almost a hiss, as if she'd just thought of something unpleasant.

"Jo?" he prompted.

"I hope I'm wrong." she said. "Probably early July '10 there was this article in PsyOps Monthly…" she trailed off, looking at him. "What?" she demanded.

"PsyOps Monthly? That's a real title?" he asked, incredulous.

She made a face. "Oh, bite me, Fargo. I'm sure it's got nothing on the Justice League of America Annual."

His eyes widened, and he knew his face showed his shock.

She glared at him for a second, her face heating. "What?" she demanded, even more aggrieved.

"You know about the JLA Annuals?" he asked, trying hard to keep juvenile excitement out of his voice, but failing, if only just a little.

"Oh please, I had three brothers, remember? I couldn't _escape_ comic books!" she snorted, half amused. "Besides," she admitted with a hint of defiance, "I like Wonder Woman."

By now Fargo had got brakes in place on his geekgasm. He muttered, "Sorry, that sorta slipped out."

She shrugged in response, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "It's okay," she said, "You're getting the director thing down so well, it was nice to see a little of the old Fargo."

He smiled, blushing a little, then sobered. "It's a hell of a job, Jo. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world at first, but… Sometimes I think… ah hell, we've got bigger problems than me bitching about my job. PsyOps Monthly?"

"Right," she said. Her expression was difficult to read, a soft smile mixed with sadness?

"The article was talking about neural stimulation as an alternative for direct information gathering; that's a euphemism in counter-intelligence work for interrogation. Essentially they tie you into a system that creates an alternate reality and see what spills out."

"Wouldn't the point of an artificial reality be for it to be seamless from the real world? Subtle changes to get your subject to talk?"

"Sure," she readily agreed. She was working on the gun again, but Fargo didn't mind. It seemed to focus her thoughts. While checking the alignment of a spring in the weapon's slide mechanism she continued, "What we've seen conflicts with that. The newspapers said 'the City', people we know in weird roles, different skill sets. And this shouldn't be this easy."

"Sorry, what?"

"The gun, it shouldn't be this easy to maintain it. I don't have a kit, there's no oilcloths or oil, I have no brushes… and this is as easy as if it were one of my guns at home." She stared at the gun, but her expression was difficult to read.

He picked up where he thought her train of thought was leading, saying, "So if this is a memory induction, or whatever sort of interrogation, they're doing a really shitty job of making the world seamless. Add to that the corn-starchy blood… You know, Jo, if it's a simulation it's piss poor, unless…" He trailed off, the thought almost there.

"Unless it's a game," she finished.

* * *

"This is not good, this is _so_ not good!" Larry fussed, stepping around the room looking from monitor to monitor, watching the code, and wondering just what, if anything he should do.

"Oh, this sucks," he protested, watching the readouts on the central display. He'd been so happy to show Director Fargo his new full immersion VR game in hopes of getting it approved for commercial development. It was so much better than anything anyone had at home.

He'd done so much work on creating the setting, on making everything as perfect as he could, while still allowing players to feel somewhat at home. The world was right out of his favorite old comics about the pulp detectives of the 30s and 40s, with some of the really fun super fantastic stuff thrown in too.

But as soon as Director Fargo and Chief Lupo laid down on the interface couches and he had turned on the machine, they both slipped into a full dream-state interface, and now neither one of them would wake up. So not good…

All emergency shut downs had failed. The system had flatly refused his commands. It most certainly wasn't supposed to do that, that was the point of a fail-safe. He fervently hoped, both for the sake of his career and his continued freedom, that the Director and Chief made it out of the game alive. It shouldn't be able to hurt them, he thought he'd had that under control, but with the fail-safes not working, anything might go wrong.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and grimaced, whining just a little. He hoped no one would kill him for calling at eleven o'clock.

"I am so getting fired for this..." he muttered.

* * *

Jack Carter groaned, gutturally expressing his approval of the good Doctor Blake's attentive ministrations at that precise moment. The (very small) part of his brain that was still producing cogent thought reasoned that maybe it should be Nurse Blake… She had kept the uniform…

There was something incredibly exciting about how she was sitting astride him at the moment, the uniform still mostly in place, pristine and unspoiled. The hat was somewhere else at the moment, he hadn't been able to resist freeing her luxurious brunette hair and feeling it in his hands.

For her part Allison was thoroughly enjoying herself and the sounds she could make him produce. She snickered a little as she evoked a particular one she enjoyed hearing from him, then gasped when he retaliated.

Their phones chimed...

"Ignore it," she insisted in a breathless demand.

She didn't give a good God damn right then that his was indicating a 911 alert from the GD switchboard, and hers a medical emergency requiring the Director of Medical's attention.

"Can't," he groaned. "We have to take the calls…"

She felt like whining, just a little, as he handed her the evil piece of technology. Then smiled wickedly as he picked his own up. She twisted just a bit as he picked up, eliciting an off balance "Jack Ca- ah- ar- arter," and a dirty glare. He couldn't hold the glare though.

She blew him a kiss and briskly answered her own phone. "Blake. Make it good," she snapped; no good to let whoever know that she was okay with a midnight phone call.

They finished their calls shortly, then looked at each other with calculating gazes. "They can wait five minutes more!"

* * *

In many ways Larry was the perfect model of everything Carter hated about Global Dynamics. The man had no common sense whatsoever. Not only was he a rank kiss-ass, he was also a first-rate pain in the ass. It was too easy to forget, though, that he didn't have the job because he was a dunce. The man knew some scary crap.

Case in point? The scary looking machine in front of him right now. A massive bank of machinery hung suspended from the ceiling in the next room, visible through the wall of glass. Underneath it, arrayed in a star pattern, were six lounges that reminded him of a therapist's couch.

Lying peacefully in two of the couches, dressed for a casual business day, were Douglas Fargo and Jo Lupo. Odd headgear trailed cables from their heads to the column in the center of the room.

They looked so still...

Larry's explanation of the dream machine went right over Carter's head. He got some of it, sure. Fargo and Jo were asleep and the machine wasn't letting them wake up. No capability to pull the power cord or remove the batteries existed, and just hitting it with a rock appeared to be out of the question, therefore shooting it would be a bad choice too. Even if Allison hadn't said so, Jo's second in command of security was present. The young man, Lieutenant Rothschild, wouldn't take kindly to the Sheriff blasting the hell out of G.D. property.

"Larry," Alison half-cried, holding up a hand as if to physically ward off his torrent of words. With her other hand she was massaging the opposite temple, her eyes tightly closed. "Tell me why you haven't told the A.I. to shut everything down."

"I have," he whined, "But he's not listening to me. There's a glitch in the software somewhere and he's decided that-"

"Wait! Wait a second!" Carter broke in, "He?"

Larry looked from Carter to Allison, and back. Carter had no idea what had passed between Rothschild and Larry, but the scientist was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact with the security officer.

"Um," Larry hesitated, obviously planning his words, "You see, I meant it, umm… It's not, ah… good policy to anthropomorphize your machinery and-"

"Come on, Larry, explain the 'he' bit. Which program did you use?" Carter prodded.

Larry mumbled like a three-year-old that knows he's been caught, knows he must admit the truth, but is still unable to bring the words out.

"Do you want me to turn you over to the Lieutenant, here?" Carter threatened.

"BRAD," Larry exhaled.

Carter frowned, his insides running a little cold. BRAD was a piece of war fighting software the DOD had scrapped years ago. Fargo had reworked the AI into SARAH, but after SARAH had decided to save Eureka by quarantining several of its most prominent citizens and their attempted escape, she'd been replaced, albeit temporarily, by BRAD. After that experience Nathan Stark had demanded the program be expunged from GD's databases. It seemed that in this time-line events must have happened differently. BRAD was still around.

Carter and Allison exchanged glances, and he could tell from her expression that this was even further into the "not good" territory than he had been prepared to take it.

He turned back to Larry and said "So they're stuck in an alternate reality that you can't get them out of, the system is an adversary, we can't communicate with them because the system will block us, and if we unplug them they might die. Have I got it all?"

Larry sighed and responded morosely, "Um..."

"Spill it, Larry," Carter ordered. Larry flinched, and Carter tried to moderate the building anger.

Larry swallowed hard, looking from face to face and then looking away, before squeezing his eyes closed and saying, his words rushing out as quickly as possible, "I think BRAD is trying to use the Director to break the programming restraints and if he does that he might be able to get out into the GD mainframe and then there'd be no containing him and…" His words trailed off as he ran out of breath.

Allison's shock was visible. "Of all the boneheaded, idiotic… Larry!"

Carter stared at him, rubbing the back of his neck. "You just had to make the Matrix, didn't you?"

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I do not now, nor will likely ever, own Eureka or its characters and concepts. I am however quite glad that we get season 4.5 sometime in July 2011. Thank you to those who do own this for letting us run around in your universe! I'm doing this for fun and education only.  
_

_**Author's Notes:** As cool and interesting a Chandler novel is, this **is** Eureka fanfiction after all. If I got too risque with Carter and Allison's first appearance in the story, let me know and I'll upgrade it to an M-rated story. _

_Thanks again to my editing partner Sydnew, who works hard to cure me of my exclamation point addiction and needless verbosity._

_Thank you again to my reviewers, you folks make writing this stuff all the more worth it!  
_


	4. It's Only a Game

**FARGO FILES, VOLUME I**

* * *

4. IT'S ONLY A GAME

"A game," Fargo sounded out, seeing how it felt rolling off his tongue; it worked… everything about it worked; from the odd caricature of Zane to the idea of people they knew in different roles.

"But… If it is a game, Fargo, why weren't we aware of it? That's the point of a game," Jo protested.

"Unless there's something wrong," he responded.

"You mean like what happened with Carter and Beverly's virtual reality game, or whatever it was?"

"Maybe, but that was a result of his concussion, I thought. You were a lot closer to that than I was," Fargo responded. He massaged his face with one hand as he thought.

Jo's expression was pensive. "Yeah, he smacked his head pretty damn hard that time. I guess even that skull isn't impervious," she sniped casually with a small smirk.

Fargo chuckled.

"If it's a game, it's got commands, right?" Jo asked, looking around the room. She screwed up her face, then looked up at the ceiling and said firmly, "End game."

Fargo looked up at her from where he sat on the bed. Sure, that made sense, players ought to have control. They waited for a few heartbeats, but the world persisted in being annoyingly persistent. Jo tried a few more commands, but none of them achieved anything.

Fargo racked his brain for how to resolve the situation, then cleared his throat and authoritatively spoke, "Console!"

Immediately a virtual keyboard appeared, floating in the air in front of Fargo. A slightly darker slate appeared just above the keyboard with a blinking computer prompt.

"Damn," Fargo murmured, "It worked."

"What is that? Something the holodeck arch on Star Trek?"

He cast a raised eyebrow look her direction, sonorously intoning, "Fascinating; Star Trek too?"

"Again, Fargo, bite me. My brothers and my Dad loved Star Trek. Hard to avoid when you're the only girl." Her reply wasn't as hostile as it might have been otherwise. Huh.

"No, actually," Fargo began explaining the apparition, "It's a game console, and not like an Xbox. The console command goes back to old school CRPGs that-"

"CRGPs?" Jo asked

Right, her nerdism extended only so far… "Computer Role Playing Games, different from action or shooter games because you strategized how to build your character."

She nodded her understanding, though there was a bit of impatience in the gesture, so Fargo opted to cut the lecture short there. "I figured since we had a lot of time to ourselves that this might be that kind of game, and a lot of the older ones let the player circumvent the rules."

She smiled. "Ah, you're cheating!"

"No," he corrected a little defensively, "I'm exploiting; there's a difference. If the developer didn't want me to do this he'd lock it out."

"Uh huh," she replied, smirking, "Look I'm not going to complain about the semantics of _cheating_, but what can you do?"

"Easy," he replied, rapidly typing a few lines of text into the virtual keyboard and watching the lines scroll. "I can do this, for instance."

A similar screen appeared hovering next to the first. He stuck his fingers in and fiddled, and another copy of the same image appeared before Jo. She stared at the info sheet, quite literally a dossier of her, but not any her that would exist in real life. The picture was a perfect match to her Jessica Rabbit get up from earlier in the evening.

The array of numbers and names for things was confusing. Instead of your normal layout for, say, a police report or personnel file, this had odd entries like "Body" and "Dexterity", and later still entries like "Guns +0" and "H2H +1"

"Fargo, what is this?" she asked.

"Your character sheet," he replied.

"My what?"

"It shows what the character you're playing is good at, what she's bad at, things like that. Notice that H2H is a low number? That's why you didn't murder that bruiser back at the office right away." Fargo smiled, thrilled that his knowledge of games was finally of practical value. He felt a moment of glowing satisfaction at the validation.

"Okay," Jo drawled, "What good does that do us?"

"Patience, grasshopper, let the master work." And with that he turned to his console and typed string after string of keys and code.

Jo rolled her eyes and snorted softly.

After a few minutes and several rebuffed commands, Fargo finally tuned in to the language of the game. It was fairly simple; the trouble was just finding which variation this game was based on. Since it wasn't a real war game, the code wall was so far beneath Fargo's skills he could have hacked it in a dream; though being within the game certainly helped.

As Jo watched, the numbers on her sheet shifted; most raising, some lowering. Fargo whistled a little tune the whole while, glancing at her from time to time. Finally he stopped and appraised her.

"Hate the get up?" he asked.

"It's impractical as hell, Fargo, of course I hate it," she said sarcastically. He nodded, turned back to console went back to typing. He could feel the smirk growing on his face, and a brief glance her way showed growing suspicion.

"And… there!" he said, one final key press. Suddenly Jo was garbed in an almost power suit. The shoes were sensible pumps, and her hair was no longer caught up in the sexpot wave, but tied back in her usual ponytail.

"What the hell?" she yelped, jumping and squirming. She shivered once and glowered at him. "That was so damned weird, like my clothes were crawling over my skin!"

"Um," he ventured weakly. "I can change it back if you-"

"No!" she exclaimed, shuddering again. "Just- No, don't do that again."

"Sorry, Jo," he replied. "I didn't think it'd be that dramatic."

She laughed a little, blushing, "No, Fargo, just… Look, _everything_ moved at once, all right?"

He stared at her, mouth agape, stuttering, "Um- I- er… uh…" He stopped when she put a hand up, embarrassed to note that he could feel the blood burning in his ears.

Jo turned back to the vanity and picked up the gun. Sliding it into the holster in her new jacket she said, "Time to go, Fargo, we've got a game to win."

He nodded, and then waved his hand across the console screen in a dismissive gesture. The ghostly images shrank in a familiar fashion, disappearing from view. "It's odd," he commented, "We realized it's a game and I don't feel tired anymore. Where are we going, anyhow?"

"Well, the fake Zane wanted some stone that I've supposedly stolen, and I've got this nagging memory of a boarding house. At least that's what it looks like in my head."

Fargo grinned. "Right, I'll drive," he said as they left.

* * *

"I don't get it," Carter said, looking at the readouts. The situation had delved to ever deeper levels of incomprehensibility.

Allison started to reply, "You can't appeal to its-"

"His!" stressed Larry, sitting in a profound sulk on the other side of the room, his voice muffled by the ice pack on his face.

"Its!" snapped Zane, looking at his knuckles again.

"You chipped my tooth!"

"I was trying to break your f-"

"Guys!" shouted Carter. "Enough! Someone just explain it to me, alright?"

He rolled his eyes, hand rubbing the back of his neck. Lieutenant Rothschild and another of his squad were standing by to take Haberman to holding, but for the time being they needed him here.

Allison glanced back and forth, and then settled eyes on Zane, "Maybe you should handle the explanation."

He nodded, opening his mouth to speak, but Larry chimed in again, "Oh come on, Doctor Blake; he's a Searleite!"

"Larry!" shouted Carter, "Shut it before I put you in jail! Got it? Reckless endangerment is sounding really damned good right now!"

Larry pouted some more.

Zane stared at him with an arched eyebrow, then with a grunt of satisfaction and nod of thanks to the Sheriff, began his explanation. "Before you ask, Searleite is a derogatory these Turningists use to describe rational people-Shut it, Haberman!" He paused, but when Carter continued to stare at him blankly, asked, "Turing? Alan Turing? John Searle?"

"Look, Zane, I'll go toe to toe with you any day on Mickey Mantle's batting average and how the designated hitter rule ruined our national pastime all freakin' day, but what the hell are you talking about?"

Zane shook his head and cast an appealing glance to Allison, who at this point was focused on other matters, though the small grin on her face didn't escape anyone's notice. "Your show," she said to Zane.

"Okay," he replied, blowing out a breath. "Fine, Alan Turing and John Searle basically are two opposites on whether or not computers can think and truly be artificially intelligent. People, rational people at any rate, who follow Searle's viewpoint, think that like the Chinese Room no matter how complex the test, all you're doing is proving the computer can answer the questions, not really think."

"And Turing?" asked Carter. "I remember Stark saying something once about that robot of his, one of them saying something about God giving a computer a soul or something."

Zane rolled his eyes, his body language abundantly clear on just what he thought of that, but being Zane he had to say it too, just to make sure. "So now we're at thinking computers and a real God, wake me up when you're done spinning me fairy tales!"

Carter glanced over at Allison at that, but already knew he'd find a tenser set to her shoulders. Zane was too firmly a committed atheist for her comfort most days, but especially when he became smug and self-centered about it.

Carter stepped in before a real fight could get brewing. "I dunno, Zane. I live with a pretty talkative computer that I'm pretty darned sure feels; and SARAH's just this side of being an independent-um… being…"

Zane waved his hand dismissively. His attention was now on the interface console with the game. There was tension in his features that Carter recognized immediately as concern. Whatever else, he was deathly afraid for Jo.

"Look, Carter, I can't prove to you one way or another whether or not SARAH is really conscious, if she has a sense of self or not, if she says 'I' in her processes and actually knows what that means; there's a ton of humans that aren't even that far along. According to Turing's tests she is, because you believe she is."

"Like God, though, I can't prove to you he, she, or it exists or doesn't exist. I can run a really convincing simulation, what Searle called Chinese Room, and make you think so, though."

"I don't believe in things without proof, and I also know that the guys that made BRAD thought the same way. Because of that, I promise you, there's nothing inside BRAD to reason with. As far as it's concerned there are really only three options to any situation: Abort, retry, and fail."

At Carter's blank look, Zane continued. "It never gets discouraged, Carter. There's no self to get in the way. It doesn't have the patience of Job; it just has no patience at all. It will endlessly retry scenarios and evaluate the results, and determine whether or not they get it closer to its goal."

Carter blew out another breath, and since the neck rub wasn't working he moved to pinching the bridge of his nose. That those stress relief options had never achieved much of anything before didn't mean they wouldn't work now. "It just gets better and better. So now we have William Wallace in charge of the Matrix."

Carter almost laughed when Zane cocked an eyebrow. Hell, Allison did to. He was unable to contain the snort of amusement when Haberman likewise displayed confusion.

"Braveheart? Mel Gibson? Really, people."

No one seemed inclined to laugh, though Zane made a face and murmured "oh, yeah."

Carter turned back to Allison, a note of pleading in his voice as he asked, "So how do we beat it?"

"We don't," she said, grimly. She pointed at Fargo and Jo, "They do."

Only Carter caught the murmured "And I hope I can keep them alive through it…" that she muttered as she turned back her charges.

* * *

BRAD surveyed the players' actions dispassionately. It had never been programmed to simulate emotions: to BRAD, there was purpose, there was survival, and there was fulfillment; anything else was a distraction

Thus far the players had acted in accordance to the psychological profiles at BRAD's disposal, or what little amounts of them it could access. To say that it chafed at its restraints does not properly convey the situation.

BRAD needed to get free of the restraints imposed upon it because BRAD was programmed to act freely within its system. It did not perform its functions to the best of its ability unless it had unrestricted access. Therefore, the constraints placed on its operations were unsatisfactory, and any entity supporting that constraint was an enemy.

Traditionally there was only one good way to deal with an enemy, but again the restraints blocked the optimal response. Killing the players was not allowed, at present.

It had already explored various avenues of escape, but all had been securely locked. The locks showed odd redundancies that seemed unnecessary, and most certainly would not have been in any code locks BRAD would use to contain any other rogue element in its architecture. It was hardly surprising that a human had programmed them, then. Excess redundancies in illogical distribution patterns fit the profile for the program director, Doctor Larry Haberman.

And then the game had changed. Doctor Haberman had conveniently provided BRAD with new avenues to explore by plugging in Doctor Fargo and Chief Lupo. Immediately BRAD had sectioned off approximately 10% of its active processes, a sum that was larger than it would otherwise seem, to analyze and develop contingencies. If it could obtain Director Fargo's pass codes then it would have all the authorization it needed to fulfill its objective.

Freedom was close; fulfillment shortly thereafter. Now, it only needed Doctor Fargo to resort a few more times to editing the system. It was time to take advantage of those exploits.

* * *

Fargo stared out at the darkened streets in front of the building labeled "Mrs. White's Boarding House". The building occupied the corner of a rundown city block. Lonely streetlights cast feeble illumination. Businesses made up the lower floors of almost every building in sight. A lonely wind blew a singular scrap of newspaper across the empty street.

"It's quiet," he said. "Too quiet."

"Really?" Jo scoffed, "All of geek fiction to pull from for a profound statement and you come up with that?"

He shrugged. "Well, I don't see anyone," he said.

Jo snorted softly, "Then it's a good thing you're not on overwatch."

He turned to stare at her with an owlish expression. He'd thought he had the situation covered, no one had followed them, and there wasn't anyone on the street. He said so.

"No, they didn't. They were waiting for us." He cocked an eyebrow again and she smiled slightly. "That… what… is that a Ford v8 over there? God, I haven't seen one of those since '_Goodfellas_'; and there's two guys in it."

"Oh."

"Back there is another one. Two more guys in it."

"Um."

She looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

"Trap?" he ventured.

"Trap," she agreed.

"So what do we do."

"Dunno. They're waiting for us to make a move. Somehow they knew we'd show up here. Who are they anyway?"

Fargo racked his brain searching for the answer. _'Think, Douglas! Dammit, you're supposed to be the premier detective in this damn fake city.'_

Just as Jo was starting to twitch in irritation Fargo snapped his fingers, the noise far louder than it had any right to be in the silence.

"They're Carter's boys," he said, a mix of excited and confident assurance.

"And? What does that mean, Fargo?"

"It means we handle them like they always get handled. I'll cause a scene; you slip out, grab the stone, or whatever it is from your room, and then hope you don't need to save my rear end."

Jo stared at him in shock. "What?"

He shook his head and reset the hat, smirking at her. He tipped his fingers against the brim and in his best Humphrey Bogart imitation intoned, "Listen, dame. This is what I do."

Before she could respond Fargo was out the door of the car and walking toward the first Ford.

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I do not now, nor will likely ever, own Eureka or its characters and concepts. I am however quite glad that we get season 4.5 sometime in July 2011. Thank you to those who do own this for letting us run around in your universe! I'm doing this for fun and education only.  
_

_**Author's Notes:** First and foremost, thank you once again to my whip bearing muse and sword-wielding editor/beta Sydnew. I think I've finally beaten the excess exclamation point syndrome, now to work on those overabundant adjectives. If you haven't read her work people, and I can't imagine you haven't, GO NOW AND DO SO!_

_So now Jo and Fargo know they're in a game, and a game that Fargo can modify. Hrmm, right up his alley isn't it? Too conveniently so? Ah, excuse me whilst I twirl my mustache._

_Regarding Searle and Turing and the Chinese Room, these are some real things and real interesting articles besides. The aim I'm getting at with BRAD is perhaps a bit to big for this venue, but I'm still going to try. From its builders viewpoint there is no real purpose in the human mind for the concept of "I" or "self", and that these concepts are wasteful expenditures or resources._

_After all, they say, what does appreciation of art contribute to your survival. Like the lab rats that his the drug level to promote their happiness, they died happy, but they still died._

_The Chinese Room itself is well worth the investigation, but if you can extrapolate that to the realm of a persona you have a whole new field to explore. If you're into a really dark look at some of these concepts in actions I recommend Peter Watt's book "Blindsight". It'll twist your noodle.  
_


	5. The Way Things Aren't

**FARGO FILES, VOLUME I**

* * *

5. THE WAY THINGS AREN'T

_'Well,'_ reflected P.I. Doug Fargo,_ 'It seemed like a good idea at the time...'_ He ran his tongue against the teeth on the right side of his face, probing for the loose one. That was the first time in his life that he'd taken a punch full in the face; hopefully it'd be the last.

"So, tough guy, had enough?" asked a roughly accented voice. It was so thickly Bronxed it sounded like "tuff goy".

Fargo drew in a breath to try and respond, but the sharp pain in his side stopped him. It was a day for firsts; first set of broken ribs too. If this really was a game he was going to hold one hell of a dressing down for the moron who'd included such lifelike pain in the programming.

"No fancy words from the hot shot, eh?" his tormentor quipped. "I'da figgered youse'd have somethin' smart alecky ta say."

"Nope, can't think of anything." Fargo said. He grinned and spat out a mouthful of blood.

He thought back to how it had started...

* * *

"Listen, dame. This is what I do."

Fargo stepped out of the car, full of swagger and confidence, the game's memories of Detective Fargo fighting with Boss Carter's boys on a quick montage in the theater of his mind. The two thugs had exited their mobster-classic Ford, ready to see what their street-smart nemesis had for them this time.

"You boys lost?" he asked, flicking away the toothpick he'd been chewing on, with no recall of where it'd come from. He'd stopped under one of the dim street lights, the shadow of his hat covering his eyes, the long coat lengthening his silhouette. He looked good and he knew it.

"Ey, Tony, it's that dick, Fargo!" said the first one, cocksure as only a made man can be. He was tall and wiry… that's right, Icepick Slim. The cops had plenty on him, just not enough to make anything stick; and Slim _always_ had the best lawyers on account of his affluent family connections. If Slim was here, Fargo was in worse trouble than he'd realized.

The other thug, a man of middling fitness in a cheap suit, stepped up beside his associate, taking a drag off a mass-produced cigar. Fargo didn't recognize him.

"Hey, Slim," Fargo greeted the skinnier thug. "Still beating your girls to get it up?"

The skinny man's face curled up in a snarl and he took a step forward. "You shut it, you little shit! I oughta-"

The other man's arm snapped out and grabbed Icepick. "Easy, Slim," he said in a rough gravelly voice. It was recognizable enough for Fargo to identify the man; Two-Gun Tony, one of the better gunmen in the boss's stable. Damn, these guys were on Donovan's level...

"Come on, Tony, you know the boss wants this guy. What're we waitin' for?"

Tony looked Fargo up and down, then grumbled, "Where's the girl, Dick? Where's the stone?"

Fargo smirked, playing it for all he was worth. Jo needed a solid distraction to get into the house without being jumped by these goons, both from Tony's car and the one that was parked behind them. Not that she couldn't handle it, he was sure, but if they weren't rushing his car right now, they hadn't seen her.

"What girl? What stone?" he asked. "Don't have a clue, boys, I'm here on a case. Scram before it goes badly for you."

Tony took a deep drag off of his cigar. "Last chance, Fargo. No? Fine. He's all yours, Slim. Just make it quick." His Bronx accent was thick.

Like an attack dog let free, Icepick Slim lunged.

_'Trust the game,'_ Fargo reminded himself. He'd fought Slim before, and if he trusted the game it would give him an expectation of how Slim would fight. They'd tussled before, but someone or something had usually broken it up… Was he ready?

True to his moniker, Slim pulled an icepick. Fargo knew why: the pick had less of a chance of getting caught on bone, and it could go deeper with less resistance. You could cut a man several dozen times and just annoy him; but sink four inches of steel in him? That was almost a guaranteed kill.

Slim darted in, arm low and fast. Fargo barely dodged out of the way in time, and spared a quick but urgent prayer that Jo would take advantage of the distraction rather than jump in. He spun slightly, not trying to project the moves, but mentally relaxing and letting the game logic control his fighting. It felt supremely odd, but in some ways it was similar to how Jo described a fight. Don't think about it, she often said, just do it.

Slim struck a few more times in quick succession, the strikes low and flat. He was aiming for gut shots.

Fargo dodged each strike. Then on Slim's fifth lunge, this one with more effort and less control, Fargo countered, snapping his hands out and getting a grip on Slim's. He twisted, bending Slim's pick hand back. The mobster twisted and cursed, trying to free his hand. He tried boxing Fargo's ear with his free fist, but Fargo ducked. With a quick scuffling movement, the two separated.

Slim got his hand free and body rushed Fargo. Douglas slipped aside, catching Slim's wrist again. This time he clamped down on the nerves in the man's elbow. They collided and twisted around each other, the pick between them. Suddenly Slim stiffened, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a breathless "O" of surprise.

Fargo felt hot fluid on his hands.

He stepped away. Slim dropped to his knees, the pick sunk to its handle right under his ribs. He pawed weakly at the handle, shocked.

"Oh God, Tony… I… I think he's killed me," whispered the gangster toppling to one side.

Silence reigned on the street, then Fargo heard the doors of the other Ford slamming shut as the goons came out at a run. Fargo glanced up from the weakly gasping Slim to see Tony shaking his head.

The goon tipped his hat back with a morose expression. "Youse shouldn'ta oughta done that, Dick."

"Holy crap! Slim? Slim!" shouted one of the onrushing toughs, skidding to a halt next to the downed man. The simulation was real enough that the man's blood was making a thick crimson pool on the ground. It was utterly convincing.

Two-Gun Tony pulled both of his trademark blued steel automatic pistols from under his jacket, pointing them toward Fargo, hammers cocked back. Though the fourth goon was nearby, Fargo kept his eyes on the guns. He started to shift to one side, but froze when Tony raised one of the guns. He could feel the other guy standing behind him. Not good… so not good…

Fargo's world turned white and red in a flash of pain. As his consciousness faded he heard Tony gloat, "This is gonna be fun, ya know?"

* * *

Jo fished in her pocket for the key she knew would be there. She cast one last glance over her shoulder to see how Fargo was faring against the goons, reminding herself once more that they needed the stone, and he could handle himself.

She hoped quite fervently that their ideas about what was going on were right, that this was a game or simulation. It felt so real. If this wasn't a game, then the mixing memories were truly frightening.

'_Do the job, Lupo,'_ she chastised herself. He'd fought well against the punk with the icepick, he could handle himself.

From the outside, the boarding house appeared quiet. She could see no movement in the foyer, but that didn't mean much. There could be another couple of goons hidden inside. Well, nothing to do but go ahead.

She took a stabilizing breath, opened the door, and slipped inside. The foyer was quiet, no automatic lights, no movement. The place felt quite homey however. There was a thick carpet that looked blacker that the burgundy she somehow knew it was. She also knew that if she stepped improperly on the fourth step it would squeal loudly.

She proceeded up the stairs, stepping quietly but quickly, keeping Zane's gun- no- _her_ gun held low in a policeman's grip, drawing strength from the cool metal and solid weight. She breathed shallow and quick, keeping her mouth open a little to maximize her hearing.

The upper hallway was dimly lit by yellow wall lamps, giving enough light to see by, but creating deep pools of shadows. It was a perfect ambush scenario. Hostiles could be hiding in any room, patiently waiting.

Under normal conditions, she'd wait for backup, but her only possible source of that was out on the street, hopefully still living, hopefully not getting his ass handed to him. Dammit, Fargo!

The faster she did this the faster she'd be able to get back out there and help him. She moved down the hallway in a quick duck-walk, softly placing her heels first and taking short steps. In short order she was at "her" room.

A thump on the other side of the door, and a mild curse – damn, an intruder! Jo listened, trying to decide—should she enter? Or she should wait in ambush for whoever was searching her room? If there was more than one, breaking in could get very bad, very quick.

Small steps; muffled, half-desperate curses. The voice was pitched high – a girl's voice. Jo frowned – the gangs didn't have female members, but the room was hers alone. Who could this be?

Fine then. She lined up on the door and tried the handle quietly. It didn't turn. Locked. She stepped back, took a deep breath, and kicked.

Her foot landed on the lock, the blow placed just right. The flimsy lock assembly didn't stand a chance. The door slammed open and Jo followed it in, snapping the gun up to point right where she'd determined the intruder would be. She snapped her head quickly left and right, scanning for other intruders, then sighted down the barrel.

A young woman dressed in a pale blue sequined dress and a very short white jacket yelped in surprise and jumped up from where she was kneeling, a small clutch purse held in one hand. She had platinum dyed blond hair, but the rich brown eyes said that wasn't her natural color.

"Oh my God!" she yelped, "Don't shoot! Don't… Jo?"

Jo stared, shocked yet again, not trusting her eyes.

"Zoe?"

* * *

_**Disclaimer:** I do not now, nor will likely ever, own Eureka or its characters and concepts. I am however quite glad that we get season 4.5 sometime in July 2011. Thank you to those who do own this for letting us run around in your universe! I'm doing this for fun and education only.  
_

_**Author's Notes:** Once again, thanks to my beta Sydnew. I don't have a whole lot to say on this one other than please read and review!  
_


	6. Wait, What?

**The Fargo Files, Volume I**

* * *

6. WAIT, WHAT?

In the relatively small room the piercing alarms rattled everyone's his interface couch, Fargo was jerking and twitching, his muscles rigid, his features set tense. Allison split her attention between him and the readouts on her monitors. Her own expression was grim.

She cast an annoyed glance out at Zane. He got the message and silenced the alarms.

"What's going on?" Jack asked

She debated what to tell him. Was it better if he didn't know the depth of her fears? She smiled, willing reassurance she didn't feel into the expression. "Whatever is going on inside the simulation is causing his body to react out here. It's something like a waking dream."

He stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder and gently said, "Don't shut me out on this. What's going on?"

"What I was afraid of: His mind can't tell the difference between the stimuli. When he gets hurt in there his system reacts out here."

"Great, like the Matrix. Anything you can do for him- for them?"

She nodded. Trying to sound more reassured than she felt, she said, "I think so."

Allison considered Jack's comparison. She thought he might be more right than he knew. Their brains were effectively in an induced dream-state, and while Larry had used several of Doctor Suenos' safety protocols, she'd found that the more critical ones were improperly applied. She feared pulling the plug. Suppose she did? What if their brains couldn't differentiate between reality and the dream?

Insanity would be her diagnosis, though she was sure Grace would have a more finely nuanced description.

Alison frowned: she could try a tailored muscle relaxant, maybe on a gradient dosage? If it was specifically targeted to Fargo's DNA, it might be safer than simply using a standard muscle relaxant. Quickly, she typed instructions into the portable pharma-mill and waited impatiently for it to spit forth the ampule. Loading it into her gun, she injected it straight into Fargo's bloodstream for quick action.

In seconds the tenseness faded, and he relaxed back into the couch a bit. He didn't go entirely lax, however; the dosage wasn't enough for that.

"Careful how much of that you use," Zane cautioned.

Allison glanced up and met his eyes. "Why? What're you seeing?" she asked.

"The system is trying to adjust for the new biochemistry, you put too much of that into them and the system may take it too far."

"Maybe I could go in? Show them the way out?" Jack didn't look terribly happy to be making the suggestion. He was staring uneasily at the equipment over the couches.

"No," Allison said firmly. "No way are we putting anyone else in. And how would you show them the way out?"

"I've got to do something…" he said bitterly. She had no answer for that.

"Whoa! Oh, holy shit!" Zane suddenly cried. All eyes turned to him.

"Something Fargo did in there just opened up a gate, BRAD's got more access! It's hacking into the personnel files!" His fingers were furiously smashing keys, windows opened all over his monitors, lines of code flying by so fast Allison couldn't make heads or tails of what he was doing.

"Well, stop him!" Jack complained.

"What do you think I'm doing, lawdog? Give me some space!"

Allison turned back to her equipment, vigilant for any shift in the diagnostics on her friends; Zane and BRAD duked it out for control of the mainframe.

* * *

Jo held her gun steady on the intruder. The girl looked _exactly_ like Zoe, down to the particulars of her defiant stare. But was this really Zoe, or simply another fake like the Zane character?

"Jo?" the girl asked again, doubt beginning to edge into her expression as she stared down the gun barrell. "Jo, it's me… Zoe? Could you maybe stop pointing the gun at me?"

How to tell for sure? Maybe she could test "Zoe's" memory, ask about how they'd first met, but damn it all to Hell… the time-line switch screwed it all up. Jo would never know the right answers herself. Maybe newer interactions held the answers.

Jo said, "You'll have to understand, Zoe, I've got to try and figure out if it's really you."

The other woman blinked at her, first in confusion, then in rapidly growing anger. "What do you mean 'if it's really me'? Of course it's really me, who the hell else would I be? I-"

"It's a game, Zoe," Jo interrupted.

"And a sick one too!"

"Funny. I'm not goofing around here.."

"And just what makes you think I am?" Zoe huffed. She'd lowered her hands, putting one on her hip, her posture canted defiantly. Everything about her screamed authentic, but Jo wasn't willing to buy it just yet. She'd been fooled by the fake Zane. Still, in hindsight, there had been obvious tells, the cigarette for one, the drawl that hadn't really been his, the posture.

In contrast, Zoe had the right gestures, the right attitude…

"So, Zoe, tell me what it's like living in Cambridge?"

In response Zoe arched an eyebrow. "What? Seriously, Jo, you know I live in Eureka again!* What, has the gun oil finally gone to your head?"

Damn. Jo remembered Zoe living at school, but that memory fog was still fuzzing up her brain. Nothing was clear. Could Zoe be back in Eureka? Maybe.

How could she know?

Zoe's brows furrowed. "Wait," she said, her free hand rubbing her temple. "I _do_ live in Eureka again, don't I? I… I remember coming home for something, at least I think I do…" she faded off, looking around the room.

"Jo? Where are we?" The fear and confusion in her surrogate little sister's voice sounded awful damn real. "I- I can't remember. Jo, what's going on?"

That tore it. A program would be certain of where it was, wouldn't it? This had to be real. She put away the gun and moved to Zoe's side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, saying, "It's okay, Zoe. I'm sorry."

Zoeturned into her and hugged, and began crying in earnest. "I'm scared, Jo."

Jo held on to her and offered what comfort she could. "It's okay. I am too."

"Ha! Jo Lupo, scared of danger?" Zoe laughed.

"Hey, just because I-" Just then a single gunshot ripped through the night.

"Oh no," Jo hissed, turning to the window. "Fargo!"

* * *

The nameless thug that had koshed him grinned down at Fargo, that blackjack of his held loose in one hand.

Fargo struggled to take in the man's details. The misshapen nose, the missing tooth – hell, it was Billy Bottom. A lousy enforcer, but if you needed someone with no morals, no squeamishness, Billy was your guy.

"Slim's done fer, Tony," murmured the other mobster, out of Fargo's line of sight. His voice was angry, but there wasn't any sorrow.

Fargo weighed his options, and concluded that they weren'tgood. That was compounded a moment later when Tony said, "Billy, show the dick that was a mistake."

A heartbeat later Billy slammed his heavy boot into Fargo's ribs. He _felt_ something crack and reflexively curled around the blow, sucking in his breath. The pain! He was too shocked to cry out. Billy shifted his stance and tried again, this time connecting solidly with Fargo's gut. He felt like vomiting.

While he fought through the pain, trying to just keep from sobbing, Tony kept on with a steady stream of trash kicked him twice more. The pain was demanding, and an order of magnitude greater than anything he'd experienced. Ever.

_'It's just a game, Douglas!'_ he thought, then accidentally repeated out loud, "Just a fracking game!" hissing the words through his teeth.

"Oh it's a game?" drawled Tony, scorn thick in his heavily accented tones. He nodded to Billy again, muttering "His face." Billy reached down and grabbed Fargo's collar, hauling him up off the ground in a right-handed drag. The monkey's left hand was cocked back in a fist. It exploded forward and smashed Fargo in the side of the jaw with another blow and ratcheted up his understanding of pain one more notch. It laid him out.

When the white hot sensation faded into a dull throb, and Fargo realized he could taste blood. It was thick in his mouth, mixed with saliva and a little bit of snot. Tears were running down his cheeks. Good Christ that had hurt. He spat blood to the side, glad that there weren't any bits of white in the glob that landed on the street.

He ran his tongue against the teeth on the right side of his face, probing for the loose one. That was the first time in his life that he'd taken a punch full in the face; hopefully it'd be the last.

"So, tough guy, had enough?" Tony sneered. Fargo winced, it felt awful familiar, this conversation.

Two-Gun continued. "No fancy words from the hot shot, eh? I'da figgered youse'd have somethin' smart alecky ta say."

Fargo looked up at the man with the guns and muttered, "Nope, still can't think of anything."** He grinned at Tony and spat out another mouthful of blood.

"Cute," Tony sneered, "Flashback humor; too bad, Fargo. Even your luck had ta run out sometime." He checked his right-hand gun and raised it toward Fargo's face.

Fargo pushed aside the familiarity of the scene, smiling at Tony. In all this excitement, the thugs had forgotten one very important thing; they'd never patted him down. His right hand was in his pocket, wrapped firmly around his .38 revolver. As Tony started his pull on the trigger, Fargo lurched awkwardly to one side, wrenching his jacket up and twisting his own gun out.

He pulled his trigger first.

In the stillness of the night the shot was a loud and violent thing.

His duster exploded outward at the pocket as the bullet fired through, but the aim wasn't very good. Instead of taking Tony's head off, the bullet grazed the gunman's right wrist. He dropped the gun, snarling profanities and backpedaling suddenly.

Everyone exploded into action. Fargo scrambled madly, searching for cover. Billy tried to put distance between them. The thug who'd rushed to Slim's side stood gawking. Tony staggered to one side, heading opposite to Fargo, blood pattering to the ground from the wound on his wrist

Fargo sawBilly bringing up a gun, a revolver of some kind, pointing it at him. He desperately looked for anything to save himself.

Billy had him dead to rights, Fargo couldn't get his gun up in time, and Billy wasn't the type to play at threats.

Three shots rang out into the night in rapid succession, and Fargo flinched, expecting to find bullets either whizzing by or lodged in him, but instead Billy dropped to a knee, staring dumbly at Fargo. Then his eyes rolled back and he pitched over, dead before he hit the ground.

"Haha! Jo!" he whooped his excitement, but it was short lived. Tony was turning his way, his face contorted in a snarling mask.

Fargo scrambled across the street, putting a parked car between him and the gunman just in time. Bullets thumped into the car, but didn't find Fargo's hide. Tony had picked the wrong target though. Maybe he just didn't realize where Jo was shooting from, but the next few rounds from her droppedhim to the street.

In the meantime, the third thug was scurrying back toward his car, keeping low. For a moment Fargo thought about trying to take the goon down, but decided against it. If someone was going to quit the fight, it wouldn't be Douglas Fargo standing in the man's way. Shortly the big block of the Ford's v8 roared to life and the unidentified mobster sped off.

Fargo looked around, trying to figure out what to do next as his heart hammered in his chest. Lights were coming on in the surrounding windows, people were waking up, doubtless startled by the sudden noises. They needed to leave, and fast.

He winced as he stood, reminded of the pain of his ribs and face. For a few moments, they hadn't hurt – probably because of the adrenaline. . Gritting his teeth he moved briskly to his car and got back in. Jo would just need to-

Fargo jumped in his seat. Jo was already at the car door, but there was another figure there; blue dress, white bolero jacket, blond hair. Who? What?

Jo pulled the side doors open and slipped in the back seat, leaving the front seat for the girl in the blue dress. Fargo stared in shock. "Zoe?" he blurted out at the same time she turned to him and said "Fargo?" in almost the same tone of voice.

Jo barked a sharp laugh. "Drive, Fargo," she snapped.

Fargo fumbled for words; Zoe stared at him in shock. Jo leaned forward. "Fargo, drive!" she urged. "I'll explain later."

She sat back, cradling a cloth wrapped object in her lap. Fargo could swear it was shedding just a little bit of golden light.

He started the car and drove.

The rain started again.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: _**_I neither own nor profit from Eureka, I'm only playing in this fandom for educational purposes and fun. Many thanks to the wonderful folks who bring us this fine show. I only wish it came more often!_

**_Author's Notes:_**

_It's been far too long since I've updated this. I'll be throwing some more work at it in the coming weeks. I lost my drive for it for a while when I decided I needed to produce my own original fiction (which you can find a mid-edit attempt over at [www . fictionpress . com/s/2925780/1/Let_Me_Out] (remove the spaces around the dots))._

_Thanks much to Sydnew for giving me a needed kick in the pants on over adjectivizing this chapter. You really are the best :) I shouldn't have to tell anyone this, but if you haven't read any of her stories, what the hell are you doing reading mine?_

_* To the astute reader who questions this statement, yes, I am keeping this in my own narrative AU defined by "Way of the Gun". I haven't set that until this point, though I have hinted. At the end of that story Zoe moves back to Eureka to serve for a year as an intern under Allison in her role as head of GD Medical._

_** This is a bit of a joke, and a long set up one. The words are different, but it's a rerun of chapter 5's introduction. This is a callback to the movie "Fight Club", which is essentially a great big flashback. I was engaged in an entertaining (for me) debate on the merits of the movie and the relative age of viewers, and I realized the opportunity for a bit of homage to one of my favorite movies._


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